


Collect

by varooooom



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, F/M, M/M, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-30
Updated: 2012-09-30
Packaged: 2017-11-15 07:39:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/524823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/varooooom/pseuds/varooooom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One by one, they all learn to move forward with their lives past the knowledge of their previous ones, but Arthur's a little slow on the uptake. Merlin knows he has to help him; he just has to get through Arthur's barriers first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Collect

**Author's Note:**

> Reincarnation gone wrong. Arthur's memories get lost and land him in an asylum as he struggles to make sense of anything. Would you believe me if I said the inspiration came to me while I was staring at the Sun? Yeah. That happened. I have no idea.
> 
> Warnings for: violence/murder. manipulation. child abuse. really bad fictionalisation of mental deterioration with no medical or even situational accuracy. I have no excuses for you okay, just go with it.
> 
> Thanks to my Toss for beta-ing this. Any remaining mistakes are _entirely her fault_. ♥

"You know that feeling you get when you stare at the Sun for too long? Like - it's this beautiful thing, this one star that keeps all of us alive, literally lights up the world, but if you stare at it for too long, everything gets too bright, blurry around the edges and it takes awhile for you to come back down to Earth and see things in normal colours again. That's what it feels like whenever I think about him."

"About - ?"

"Merlin," Arthur finishes quietly, reverently, a whispered prayer with his eyes closed and hands folded atop his chest. Laying across the couch like this, he almost looks like he's upon his deathbed. Somedays, it feels like he is.

"That's right. And Merlin, he's -"

"No," Arthur interrupts, a small furrow between his brows, "No, that's not right. I'm the Sun, he's - he was the moon. I was the Sun and he was the moon, and we worked in tandem of each other. Like - like two sides of the same coin. That's what he always used to say."

"Merlin said that?"

"No. The Great Dragon."

" _Oh_."

"I don't," he frowns, brows furrowing deeper, and shakes his head. "I don't like him, I don't want to talk about him."

"Okay," Doctor Nemeth concedes, writing down a note about the 'dragon' before leaning back in her seat. The leather creaks from the movement and Arthur's lips purse. He hates the sound; she keeps forgetting to replace it. Backtracking to safer territory, she encourages him gently. "Tell me more about Merlin." 

At this, Arthur smiles lightly, the slightest curve of his lips. She's been working with him for two months now and this is the first time she's ever seen him smile. She makes another note.

"Merlin is - _was_ ," the smile slips away quickly, then returns a moment later as a grin, "He was an idiot. He had no sense of propriety, was incompetent on the best of days and utterly useless on every other day. He didn't know when to shut up and would smile at all the wrong times, even in the middle of Court, just 'cos he thought it might make me smile. Got him into trouble more than a few times."

When he goes quiet, the doctor leans forward in her chair, hands folded unassumingly atop her clipboard. Arthur always answers her questions and as far as she's aware, he never lies; he never feels the need to. But this is the first time he's simply spoken about something of his own accord, and she gives it her full attention as he starts speaking softly.

"You know, he _was_ like staring at the Sun. Always bright and energetic. He made nice with damn near everyone he came across, tricked them into thinking he was so bloody innocent and kind. He stood by me when no one else would. He was ... he was always something else."

"He was your friend?" she supplies after some time of silence. Their time is running short, and perhaps they're onto something here -

"He was a warlock."

"You mean - ?"

"He could do magic," Arthur confirms, nodding his head once. Doctor Nemeth sits back in her seat, recalling everything he's told her thus far of his Camelot.

"Your father outlawed magic."

Arthur nods again, slowly. "He didn't tell me. Not until I was King." Which, she presumes from her understanding of the world he's created, means after the previous King - his father - passed. Of this, she makes another note. Head still bowed as she writes, she asks,

"What kind of magic could he do?"

"Anything," Arthur answers immediately, "Merlin is the most powerful person this world has ever known. He can ... summon lightning from a clear sky, raise hundred year old oaks from the ground, set the horizon on fire. Anything I want him to do."

She stops, and glances up through her lashes at where Arthur is still laying with his eyes closed, body completely at rest and unmoving. The switch in tenses hasn't gone unnoticed. "You want him to set the horizon on fire?"

As soon as the words leave her lips, his face twists into something like despair, like the thought is physically painful to bear. " _No_ ," he whispers, "Never. I never wanted him to - we were at war, we had no choice, but I never wanted - he _hated_ it and I didn't want him to -"

"It's okay, Arthur," she says quickly, desperate not to lose whatever it is that brought him to this point. If he loses himself to a fit now, they might never make it back here. It isn't her job to interfere, but Arthur is sincere in his delusions, sweet almost. He means well, and despite herself - well, she _cares_. "It's okay. You only did what you thought you had to, right?"

He swallows down whatever panic was rising in his throat and nods his head silently again. After a moment of controlled breathing, he settles with a soft exhale. "I never wanted him to do it. His magic was so much more than a weapon, it was - it was beautiful. My favourites were when he'd write our names in the stars, or - or when we'd pass through the lower town and he'd conjure up flowers for the young girls that gathered around us. He was ..."

Mithian sets her pen down to watch as bright blue eyes finally open, staring up at the ceiling with a vague sense of yearning.

"He was my moon."

* * *

Merlin is always the first to remember.

He's born with the memories in tow, which is more than just a little bit frightening for an infant to cope with, and even moreso for Hunith that is always, somehow, left to handle the little bundle of magic all on her own. He doesn't know how many incarnations they've had anymore; he lost count somewhere around the establishment of the States. The only thing he's certain of is that he's always, without fail, the first to regain the memories of Camelot, and the only to remember every life in between.

Sometimes, if he's lucky, he'll happen upon one of the others during childhood. Lancelot finds him this time around on the playground in primary school; Merlin immediately bursts into tears, and though he can't say why, Lance just hugs him and offers him some crisps. Always the gentleman, that one. Having him as his best mate from the get-go is a blessing, though, and after Lancelot meets his revelation some decade later, he hugs Merlin even tighter and offers him some more crisps. 

The gentleman, but a simple one. It's _endearing_.

They collect Gwen sometime around seventh year, and she and Lance fall head over heels even without the knowledge of their past. Merlin still takes glee in teasing them about the awkward phase they went through when she finally did recall and proposed to him at sixteen years old after Lancelot offered to back off if she thought his feelings weren't sincere. Not long after that, they find most of the Knights, Geoffrey of Monmouth as their local librarian and even Cedric, though everyone sort of laughs him off and leaves him alone to his feather boas as he chases pigeons around the park.

It isn't until Gwaine happens upon them in a pub during their first year of uni that Merlin catches wind of Arthur. And what had always previously been a joyous occasion (more or less) becomes something unexpectedly painful, and Merlin doesn't stop his shaking until Lance drags him home and puts him in bed.

"I'll save him, Lance. I've got to, I _will_ ," he repeats as he has been for the last hour, clinging to the former Knight's shirt and pretending he isn't crying. He'll blame it on being pissed when he found out Arthur's in a bloody mental institute.

"I know you will, Merlin," Lancelot reassures him, prying his hands away and tucking them to his chest. Gwen comes in with a glass of water and some paracetamol to place on his nightstand, then pets the fringe from his forehead.

"You always do, don't you?" she says sweetly, smiling in that motherly way that always makes Merlin's heart ache for home. "He's lost without you."

"Bloody ... _damsel in distress_. Yeah, tell him that," Merlin mumbles encouragingly to his pillows that are quickly growing damp with tears, "Princess Arthur, got to save his royal arse. Again." He devolves into sobbing, and they stay at his bedside with Gwen rubbing his back until he stops whispering ' _I will, gods, Arthur, I swear it_ ,' and eventually falls asleep.

* * *

The dining hall is always kept immaculately clean and organised, clear paths set so that even the truly addled would have to work at getting lost. The line for medication feeds directly into the line for food, so that no one can skip either, and it's all really very neat. Orderly.

A bit despairing.

Arthur sits at the same seat everyday, at a table underneath a window of glass thick enough to stop a chair being thrown at it (a tired and proven feat). The sunlight catches on his light blonde hair just so, almost making him _glow_ as he quietly picks at the less-than-ambitious meal set before him. Some days find him walking around to pacify his fellow patients and helping the orderlies where he can. Other days, when the confines of the institute and the tireless questions with answers that don't make sense bear too heavily upon him, he simply sits and stares and waits for nothing.

Merlin hates it. He hates everything about it, from the clinically sanitised white walls and floors to the uniform blue robes to Arthur's forlorn gazing at something he can't see. He's been volunteering for a little over a week, this is only his fourth day, and already he wants nothing more than to heal everyone of their ailments and raze the place to the ground. Each time he comes to help serve and clean lunch, Merlin sees his King withering away to nothing but a shade of what he once was, what he _should_ be. It _hurts_ , but not nearly as much as the pain of being helpless to stop it. Gwen keeps telling him to be patient, that they'll figure it out slowly and ' _the best thing you can do is be_ there _for him_.'

So here he is, in a crisp, white orderly uniform, infiltrating a psych ward to save his Once and Future Clotpole. Destiny is yet again a load of bollocks.

Today, Arthur's head is bowed over his food as he picks at the things he likes and pushes the things he doesn't around his plate idly, and Merlin would smile at the characteristic behaviour if he didn't also want to still his hand and drag him out of here. He swallows down the protective instinct and heads over to clear away his dishes, but Arthur manages to speak first.

"They're watching me."

Merlin blinks, startled. The first time he met Arthur, he smiled brilliantly and shook his hand like a perfectly normal, well adjusted person. The last time he tried approaching him, Arthur simply stared at him, brows furrowed, as though he was trying to see _through_ Merlin to fathom him out, and refused to speak. This time, though, Arthur doesn't seem to be on the defensive, so Merlin looks around the room before tilting his head curiously.

"Are they, now?" He lowers his voice and leans closer, "Is it ninjas?"

Again, to his surprise (and distinct joy), Arthur looks up at him with the same beautiful blue eyes and ugly little smirk that made Merlin fall in love with him the first time. "I don't think you're supposed to take the mick out of the patients, _Em_ erson."

"Ah, well," Merlin shrugs and offers a smile that feels goofy even to him. "It's only just with you. They know you deserve it."

Arthur chuckles and shakes his head, "And they say _I'm_ the crazy one."

Just like that, Merlin's smile falls away, but Arthur thankfully doesn't notice the frown that takes its place as he goes back to toying with his food. Merlin scans the room again, then takes a risk by sitting across from Arthur and snagging a piece of mango from his fruit bowl. "So. Who is it, then?"

He seems to debate it a second, still pushing food around, before taking the last grape and offering the rest of the fruit to Merlin. "The guards," Arthur responds quietly, resigned. "I've been put on watch for ' _potentially disruptive behaviour_.' They think I'm dangerous."

Merlin already knew; they're given a basic outline of which patients should be handled how, and after Arthur's latest therapy session, he's being watched for any signs of aggression towards others. It'd be easy enough to magic his way into the doctor's office and steal the records, but Lance hit him when he brought it up. Better instead to find answers in a less direct, infinitely more legal manner.

"Do you know why?" he tries to ask casually around a mouthful of melon, but there's enough concern for Arthur's brows to furrow further. Or, at least Merlin _thinks_ that's the cause for it - up until the moment Arthur speaks again.

"The moon. It was - she," he blinks, frowning, then looks up at Merlin looking thoroughly dazed. Merlin inwardly swears. Arthur's drugs are kicking in. "You have very blue eyes."

His chewing slows and he swallows, trying for a smile and falling short, "Thank you. So do you."

Arthur only stares at him in response, frowning still, then looks down at his half-eaten lunch and starts staring out the window. Lost, again. Merlin doesn't hold back his sigh as he leaves the table with Arthur's dishes.

Maybe next time.

* * *

"Is something wrong, Arthur?"

He won't sit still. He refused to lay down, and is sitting as deeply tucked into the corner of the couch as he can get, fingers drumming across the armrest. He won't make eye contact, and every time he looks at her, he glances away quickly. Mithian's never seen him this agitated, but no incidents have been reported and he's been sleeping and eating properly. One step forward, two steps back. She writes down some suggestions for exercising off his energy, then folds her hands atop the clipboard.

"Will you answer some questions for me today?" He stills and turns forward to nod his head without looking at her. She waits a moment before continuing. "I'd like you to tell me about your family. Can you do that?"

He chews his cheek for a second, leg bouncing up and down, before stilling again and nodding his head. "Father is ... strict. His word is absolute, even when he's wrong." A pause, and Arthur's eyes narrow in contemplation. "Father is never wrong, he's - he's misguided. He doesn't, isn't -"

He shakes his head. Dead end, and he suddenly picks up in a different direction.

"Morgana is my sister."

"Morgana?" The doctor flips to his records, "It says here she's your cousin."

Arthur shakes his head, "Sister. Father - he slept with her mother when Uncle Gorlois was away. Before my - Morgana was born two years before me. She doesn't know." 

Mithian purses her lips, uncertain whether any of this is true or just a part of his delusions, but decides to make a note of it anyway. "Can you tell me about her?"

He finally relaxes into a soft smile, "She's an evil harpy."

"You don't like her?"

"She's my sister. I love her more than anything else in all the world," Arthur grins, then frowns a heartbeat later. "Loved. She - I haven't seen her in awhile." He goes quiet and looks away to the shaded window. "I haven't seen anyone in awhile."

Doctor Nemeth opens her mouth to press further, but Arthur speaks again before she gets the chance.

"My mother died giving birth to me."

It comes so quietly, at first Mithian isn't sure she heard him correctly, but then she flips to his record again and - 

"No, that's not right," he speaks before her again, "She died giving life to me."

"Arthur," she says gently, trying to pull him back to her. He turns and finally looks at her almost curiously. Months, they've been at this, and he looks more lost now than when they began. 

Mithian pauses, "Arthur, your mother died when you were fourteen."

He inhales sharply, fingers digging into the armrest of the couch, and stares at her like she declared the Queen an alien from Saturn, or something equally preposterous.

"Don't you remember? It was -"

"8th November," he finishes, eyes wide and confused and a pang of sympathy runs cold through Mithian's chest, "My birthday, it was - she died on my birthday. Giving birth -"

"No, Arthur, it was a car accident. Remember? You were in the car, she was taking you home from school -"

"No," Arthur rasps, shaking his head, "No, it wasn't, she -"

"It's okay," Mithian says quickly as his hands start shaking in his lap, "It's all right, Arthur, let's calm down, okay?"

"I don't," he shakes his head, "I don't want to - I would like to go back to my room, please."

"Arthur -"

" _Please_."

* * *

Somehow, through the emotional cock up that was the night at the pub, Merlin managed to get Gwaine's number. He wakes with a dead rodent in his mouth and three inches of grime clinging to his skin, drags himself into a shower where he mostly just leans his forehead against the wall to stop the swaying, and then finally shoots Gwaine a text once he's thought really hard about maybe possibly at some point putting on clothes.

> hangover frm hell. blaming u. buy me a coffee or 3.

His sheets smell like bloody death and misery, which, what the fuck, misery shouldn't have a _smell_ , but it's there anyway, filling Merlin's nostrils as he lays face planted in the pillows, mobile hanging loosely in one hand. Just as he's started to slip back into an uncomfortable sleep, it nearly buzzes right out of his hand.

> sure thing princess. where to?

They meet at a little shop down the street from Merlin's flat that he's never been to before, and probably won't ever come back to considering their coffee's somehow already gone cold by the time they find seats secluded off to the side. Merlin's too tired to even care; he touches both cups until steam is rising from them.

Gwaine grins, the brilliant white flash of teeth framed by his typical mess of scruff that only _he_ could make appealing. "Thank you, oh mighty warlock," he teases before gingerly taking a drink, toeing Merlin's shoe under the little table they're sat at in the corner. "You look lovely today, have I mentioned?"

"Go to Hell, Gwaine," Merlin groans at the volume of his own voice and briefly contemplates absorbing his coffee through osmosis. "I hate you."

"Shite, didn't even take a day this time. I must be losing my touch," the bastard says airily, leaning back in his seat and looking far too composed and gorgeous. This is why Merlin never goes drinking with Gwaine - or why he never _should_ , rather, but there's no denying the man, no matter what time period they're in. Some things never change. Merlin smiles weakly.

"Not true. You're charming as ever, hence my immediate hatred. It's apropos."

"You _wound_ me, old friend."

Merlin laughs lightly, a pleasant warmth washing over him that has absolutely nothing to do with the half cup of coffee he downs and everything to do with the man sitting across from him. One of his best mates, and always loyal to the end, no matter when, where or why, though Merlin's fairly certain this is the first incarnation where it's been for a hot cup of caf. His smile comes easy, "It's good to see you again."

"And you. Cheers," he lifts his drink in mock toast, and they nurse them in silence for a moment.

"How long have you known?" Merlin asks quietly some time later when the caffeine has returned some life to his veins.

Gwaine considers the answer, spinning his mostly empty cup on the table, "Since year ten, I think. Maybe nine. Can't quite recall, it was all a bit ..."

He trails off, and Merlin nods silent understanding. It's overwhelming, it always is. For everyone. Everyone except him.

"I wasn't alone though, thank the gods," he continues, "Met Leon at the start of secondary, and we remembered 'round about the same time. Also came across some Princess of Arthur's at the time, mad thing that she is."

"Elena?"

"Elena," he nods and they both grin. The Godwyn daughter is always good for a laugh. Merlin looks forward to meeting her again. The comfortable air quickly grows heavy with the _real_ reason they've met up here, and Merlin takes to staring down into the black abyss of his drink. He can feel Gwaine's eyes on him, and he doesn't want to know if there's pity or something worse hidden amidst the dark brown of them.

"Met Arthur at the start of secondary as well," he says finally. "Already had Leon in tow, they'd gone to the same poncy primary school. We played footie together - the Knights, if you'll believe it - and Arthur was our captain." Merlin looks up to see Gwaine smiling ruefully, eyes lowered to someplace different where memories live peacefully untouched by the hardships of reality. 

"Was he always - ?"

"So far off his rocker, he's sat on the bloody moon?" Gwaine supplies with a half-amused quirk of his brow, then shakes his head. "No. He was brilliant. Aces in class, stupidly overprotective - still had that stick up his arse but he knew how to run with it. He was great."

Merlin is barely conscious of it when he breathes a shaky "What happened?"

"His mum died." Merlin sets his cup down before his magic can flare up and boil the remnants of his drink onto his lap. Gwaine shifts in his seat, frowning. "Year eight, on his bloody birthday. We were all meant to surprise him at his house but they never showed. Got in an accident on the way home - Arthur wound up in A&E, but his mum ..."

If Merlin felt like shit in waking, it's nothing compared to the sudden crushing grief of now. He can count on one hand the number of times Arthur's been allowed to grow up with both his parents; only once has Ygraine ever lived to see her grandchildren. It isn't fucking _fair_ , and _gods_ , there's more to tell. Gwaine clears his throat before sitting up.

"After that, I dunno what happened. Uther went mad with grief - like, literally _mad_. Withdrew Arthur from school, stopped going into work, and soon as Arthur was released from the hospital, they disappeared," he shakes his head and runs a hand through his shaggy curls of hair. "I mean, Leon and I _tried_ to find him, but there's only so much a couple of fourteen year olds and some concerned parents can do. They'd well and truly fell off the map, and that was that. 's the last I ever saw of him.

"At least, 'til Owain rang me up a few months ago," Gwaine says carefully, gaze finally flicking to where Merlin has been watching intently the whole time, and _there_ , there it is. Everyone that knows remembers Merlin's complete and utter devotion to their twice damned legend of a King. They know what this means to him, what _Arthur_ means to him, and by the gods, does Merlin hate the prat for making him so hapless. For making the look in Gwaine's eyes nothing unfamiliar, but rather a rude and unwanted companion that sleeps on your couch for a week during a rough patch and next thing you know, you've got a new bloody flatmate and his name is Sympathy.

"You aren't going to like this."

Pitied and pitiful, but ever faithful to his Sun. Merlin sits on the edge of his seat.

"Tell me."

* * *

The next time Merlin sees Arthur, the patients are gathered in the rec room to let off steam and keep themselves entertained. It'd be sweet enough to be involved in if a handful of patients weren't having conversations with walls, wandering in circles, or otherwise crying in a ball in their seats. Merlin's magic tingles beneath his skin, begging to explode and wash away everything that keeps them here, but it's not the natural way of things, as Merlin of the Past is so keen to remind him. Bollocks to being the most learned wizard of all time; Merlin wants to reckless and stupid and _help people_ again.

But he can't. He can't, and he knows it, and his magic knows it too. It's simply being an annoying, overeager puppy in a toystore, ready to tear through everything to its heart's content. Only Merlin doesn't think it's cute or clever or at all useful, so he tamps it down and goes back to ... well, spying on Arthur, really.

Merlin's sitting with a kind elderly woman that's knitting mittens for her granddaughter that comes along every visitor day despite having been dead over a decade. He listens to her stories and helps her keep the yarn untangled, but is mostly watching Arthur at a table nearby. He's coaching two patients on their chess game, making jokes and laughing with them, seeming all the world like they're just three friends wearing matching robes and playing a game. Arthur even nips an argument at the bud when one player accuses the other of taking advice from the voices that no one else can hear. It makes Merlin's heart sink, seeing Arthur so calm and collected and knowing its just a brief period of lucidity.

As if on cue, Arthur's eyes snap up to meet Merlin's and he jumps to his feet, sending his chair flying behind him. A couple of orderlies make a move, but he holds up his hands and mumbles, "Sorry, sorry."

Merlin ducks his head to the ball of yarn in his hands, heart racing at the burning sight of Arthur's eyes blown wide and fearful. He hasn't reacted so violently to _anything_ that Merlin knows of, and it's - he doesn't know what to make of it. While he's lost in thought and trying to fix the knots she's made, someone sinks into the third seat at the table.

"Afternoon, Annie," Arthur says sweetly, and Merlin looks up just in time to catch the tail end of his flawless smile, just in time to feel his heart melt. "Those are looking lovely."

"Oh, thank you, dearie," she gushes. This man is far too good at winning people over, even when he's lost his grip on reality. "They're for Madison. You know how purple is her favourite colour."

Merlin frowns at the very clearly brown yarn around his fingers. Arthur just hums pleasantly, humouring her with an amused smile, and then turns to not at all subtly stare at Merlin. Annie starts off on a story that Arthur responds to at all the right times, asking questions and agreeing where he should, without once taking his eyes away. Merlin has the distinct feeling of being _studied_ , and something about it makes him flush to the tip of his ears. Eventually they both tune her out, blue eyes locked on each other, Arthur's brows furrowed with something like determination and Merlin's furrowed with anxiety. He inhales sharply when Arthur reaches out to touch his fingers to Merlin's cheek.

"I can't see you," he whispers, and Merlin doesn't know what that means - does he want him to stop coming, should he be leaving, is this a break up without the together part - but it doesn't matter, because Arthur continues without him. "I can't _see you_. I keep looking, but you're not there. You're missing. Where did you go?"

Merlin's dares not even breathe as Arthur contemplates him, fingers sliding from his cheek to his jaw before finally falling away. "You should wear red," he declares.

A harsh swallow to reign back every emotion stuck in his throat, his magic burning hot where Arthur touched him, and Merlin raises a brow, "The uniform is white."

Arthur scoffs and waves a dismissive hand, "The uniform is _stupid_. It's meant to be calming for us, but there's nothing more unnerving than all the damned white. You should wear red."

"Oh, I've got just the thing!" Annie says happily, digging in her basket of yarns (so _that's_ how they get tangled) to produce a long red scarf that she wraps around Merlin's neck until it's just beneath his nose. He purses his lips, then looks tentatively to Arthur, who's gone distant and blank, like he does when he's looking out the window.

"It's not right," he mutters. "It's not right."

Arthur leaves, shaking his head, and Merlin watches in wonder as he goes back to win the chess game.

"That's the King of Camelot, did you know?"

Merlin blinks at the grandmotherly proud look on Annie's face as she watches Arthur, and he quickly pulls off the scarf. "No. I didn't know. Can you tell me about it?"

"Oh! Well ..."

* * *

"I want to revisit our last session," Mithian starts, watching Arthur watch her. He's behaving today, at least, though still sitting upright and tense. It's ... odd, having him look at her so inquisitively. He typically regards her with a sort of nonchalance, which is odd on its own, as most patients tend to see her as an enemy or their very best friend. But now, instead of the careful disconnect he usually has, Arthur's _looking_ at her, and she has to fight not to feel unsettled.

She's had people scream and throw things at her, try to psychoanalyse her right back, but nothing has ever affected her the way his curious gaze is now.

The doctor swallows. "You left an entire half hour early. You know you're not supposed to do that."

"I know," Arthur nods, "I'm sorry, I just - got a little overwhelmed."

"It's okay. We're here for you, right? You're not in trouble. I just want to know why you felt like you had to leave."

He meets her gaze evenly for a moment, then blinks and looks down at his hands. "I don't remember."

"You don't remember why?"

"I don't," he says quickly, then stops short and starts picking at the hem of his sleeve. "I don't _remember_."

Arthur doesn't give her a chance to ask. "We were supposed to get married," he looks up to her looking abashed, "You and I."

Mithian blinks, "I'm sorry?"

"I called it off. I shouldn't've, you were incredible. I'm sorry."

"Um -"

"It was Merlin," he mumbles, head bowing back to where he's managed to pull a thread loose from his sleeve. "He was, he - he came to visit me."

"Hold on, Arthur -"

"But he was wrong. I mean, he wasn't wrong, we shouldn't've gotten married - sorry - but he was _wrong_ , not ... _Merlin_. He looks a damned ghost in white, he should be wearing red."

He isn't making any sense, like he's flitting between three separate conversations, and Mithian's struggling to keep up when Arthur jumps to his feet suddenly and walks over to the curtained windows, leaning against the adjacent wall and folding his arms over his chest. Boxed off and defensive, like this little corner of the room is the only place he's safe with thoughts that threaten to consume him.

"You wanted to talk about last time. My mother died on my birthday. She died for me, and my father - my father died with her. He wouldn't _look_ at me, he wouldn't ... he wouldn't _see me_. He'd see _her_ , always saw her. I'm told I look a lot like her. I don't know, I don't, I never got to - I saw a ghost of her. Once."

A pause. He swallows, shakes his head and the thought leaves him.

"I lost my mother and my father that day. He said that _magic_ killed her, _magic_ was to blame. That sorcery was evil and couldn't be trusted, magic users can't be trusted. That's why he -"

Mithian sits up immediately at full attention. Arthur always refuses to speak of it, always skirts around the questions even though they're the most important. They're why she's _here_ (why she's _supposed_ to be here, business matters that've been put second to the fact that she _cares_ ) and this is the first time they've even come close to touching the subject.

But Arthur shifts and it falls away too, like he can't bring himself to speak of it, to even think of it. It's a dark and ugly thing, a heavy load left on his shoulders even though he's not the one that should be carrying it. A mark he'll bear forever; it's just easier to look away.

"That's why he did what he did," Arthur finishes lamely, voice hushed to a whisper. Taboo of the greatest severity. _Don't tell, please don't tell_. "But he was wrong.

"He _is_ wrong, it's not - . It's not malignant or beneficial, it just _is_. It's in the earth and the air, the sea and the sky. The Sun and the moon. It's life and death and everything in between."

He stops there, and Mithian hadn't realised he started crying until he turns to face her with red eyes that are wide with confusion, like a lost child or a wounded animal with no clue how he got there.

"He said he would wait for me."

"Who did?" He doesn't answer, just furrows his brows down to the floor. "Arthur?"

"I'm sorry, I have to -" is the only preamble he gives before taking off toward the door.

"Arthur!" 

She darts after him into the hall, only to find him standing stock still, eyes blown wide. Across from him, just a short way down the hall, is one of the volunteers. A scrawny little thing, tall, with long, thin limbs and a mop of messy dark hair; staring right back at Arthur. But where Arthur looks lost, this man looks ... pained. Or maybe hopeful? She can't tell, but there's something about him -

Arthur takes off down the hall before Mithian can draw herself away from the orderly, and they both sigh in resignation. He finally notices her standing there and startles - recognition in his eyes this time, which doesn't make any sense. She's sure she's never met him before, but there's something ...

"Wait," she finds herself saying unexpectedly when he gives a small smile and makes to leave. He's probably got duties to see to, but - the moment the blue of his eyes fall upon her once more, a wave of understanding comes crashing over her so swiftly she nearly staggers under the weight. "If you have a minute, I'd like - I think I _need_ to speak with you."

* * *

"Owain found out completely by accident," Gwaine starts, planting his forearms flat against the surface of the table and slouching forward. It's such an oddly closed off, _resigned_ sort of look, where the former Knight was - _is_ , always is - the more open and rowdy of the bunch. Never fazed and always fearless, and the apprehension in his eyes doesn't suit him. Merlin's stomach tenses for the blow. 

"Always a bit of a plonker, you know? Never knows how to keep his nose out of it. An' his dad's some big wig lawyer, personal attorney for those lovely folk that'd fancy themselves Lords in our time, the ones that can afford to shit all over people and come out smelling of roses." They share a disdainful smile, Gwaine making a rude gesture with his fingers that makes Merlin chuckle quietly. "Anyway, Owain's visiting the 'rents for his mum's birthday and when his dad finally takes a break from his work, the arse takes it upon himself to slip into his office for a look-see at whatever's got Dad too busy for the festivities.

"Turns out it's an _arson_ case, not his usual affair, so Owain looks a bit deeper. Three houses," Gwaine breathes lowly, eyes falling to a familiar haunted disgust Merlin's seen a thousand lifetimes over, that distant place where victory isn't quite enough to wash the blood off your hands, and there's not enough drink in the world to stave off the grief. "All burned to the ground, with the families trapped inside. Real ... _nasty_ business, but the bastard covered his tracks damn well, never would've been caught had the police not gotten a call before the last fire's even out - from, from his son."

Chills run across Merlin's skin before Gwaine even gets the words out, blood gone cold enough to freeze time - literally, as his magic swells up around them and stops everything that isn't at this table, in his friend's darkened eyes. Gwaine notices and doesn't even start, doesn't break his gaze from Merlin's as he repeats the words transcribed in the case file.

"' _The King's started the Purge_ ,' he says. ' _I can't stop him_.'"

Time slips back into place the same instance a quiet tear rolls down Merlin's cheek, and he wipes at it furiously with his head bowed away from Gwaine. " _Jesus_."

Gwaine leans back in his seat and waits for Merlin to recompose himself before continuing, keeping somber eyes on his hands. "Uther was in his study having a spot of brandy, all cleaned up and bloody _celebrating_ when the police swarmed in. Arthur let 'em right in the front door, apologised to both the coppers and his dad like he didn't know who he'd just betrayed more, his people or his sovereign, which - fuck if that isn't the most fucked up part of it, y'know? He didn't know shit of Camelot or the crown or any of that tosh when I knew him, and come seven years later, they find him blown out of his fucking mind, accusing himself of treason for turning in his bastard father for murder on his goddamn birthday."

The sounds of the rest of the cafe, people chatting and the baristas at their machines, are powerless to pierce the silence that falls between them then, Gwaine's head buried in his hands and Merlin's eyes burning red with more than just unshed tears. Anger, and hatred - hundreds of years old and stronger than ever - but also anguish, despair. Arthur's loyalty to his father never wavers, never bows, but he knows right from wrong. He knows when to speak, and always bears the weight of his words, whether they're of victory or defeat. 

Stupid bastard. Stupid, noble bastard.

Finally, after the pained silence stretches for what feels like a lifetime, Gwaine lifts his head (Merlin notes the red around his eyes, but says nothing of it) and finishes what little is left of the story.

"Owain's dad got Arthur sent up on insanity. He'd nothing to do with the fires, but they're questioning him or some rubbish, trying to nail Uther's balls to his headstone. They dunno what he did to Arthur; drugs, maybe, or just his clever way with words spun around him in a web so thick, he can only see the real world through the cracks - but he's not much use when he can't tell left from right. Seven years, Merlin. Seven years locked up in that house with that madman and his grief. I don't know how much of our Arthur's left in him."

"I'll save him," Merlin says immediately, quietly, without hesitation. He meets Gwaine's eyes, still crying, but with his jaw set in the same fierce determination that carried them across battlefields and conquered armies. His eyes flare golden and Gwaine lifts his chin in respect, the Knight before the King's Sorcerer. "I will. I'll fix this."

Gwaine smirks, bold confidence and prideful assurance. "Too damn right, you will. Our King is waiting."

* * *

When Gwen and Lancelot let themselves into Merlin's flat, all of the lights are off and the man himself is curled up in a ball on his sofa. His keys are on the floor, his bag not far from it as though he simply let them fall away on his path to the living room. His phone is on the floor by his feet, still lit up to the screen where his text to Lancelot is pushed up by Lance's numerous responses.

> come over please

> Of course. Is everything all right?
> 
> Merlin?
> 
> Did something happen?
> 
> Answer your phone, Merlin.
> 
> Gwen is in full on mother hen mode. I hope you've already gotten a drink or two in.
> 
> We're down the street.

Gwen immediately rushes over to kneel in front of him while Lancelot turns on the lights and goes to the kitchen for some waters. No liquor out; it's either a good sign or a very very bad one.

"Merlin?" she says, placing a hand on his knee. He's doubled over with his hands buried in his hair, still in the white uniform from the hospital and _trembling_. She wonders how long he's been sitting here like this, if he contacted Lance immediately or waited until he couldn't hold it in anymore. "Sweetie?"

"Ugh, Gwen, how many times do I have to tell you not to use your pet names with me? M'not your son," he grumbles from within his little cocoon, but it's followed by a sniffle that eats away any heat.

"Quite the contrary, Hunith's given me full stand-in mothering rights whenever you're away from home, you know that." She brushes her fingers into the fringe at his forehead and he lifts his head just enough to lean into the touch, bringing to light the splotchy redness on his pale cheeks tracked with dried tears. Something breaks in her chest just a little.

"It's true," Lancelot says solemnly and plops onto the couch beside him after setting his and Gwen's glasses on the nearby coffee table and offering Merlin the last. "It's best to just yield now, before she brings out the blanket and teddy your mum gave her as her secret weapons." Merlin snorts a laugh, and Lancelot smiles softy. "Talk to us, M."

Merlin slowly unfurls and accepts the glass with a hushed ' _thank you_ ,' downing half of it before handing it back to be set on the table. His eyes are half-lidded with exhaustion and crying, and he blinks a few times before looking down to Gwen with a frown. "I spoke with Mithian today."

Gwen gasps softly, and Lancelot frowns. "Who?"

"Ah," Gwen looks away for a second, her tell for anything she doesn't like talking about with him, even though they've both repeatedly assured each other that their old life isn't this one, that the things that happened then bear no weight on now. "She's - she was one of our allies, from a neighbouring kingdom. After your time," she adds quite unnecessarily, flushing a little. He smiles fondly and tucks a curl of hair behind her ear, which makes her smile in turn - a promise to talk about it later. "You saw her at the hospital? Was she - ?"

"Arthur's doctor," Merlin finishes with a shake of his head, "His psychologist, from the police. She didn't recognise us, from _then_ , but I s'pose it all clicked into place when she saw me. Said that suddenly a lot of his rants made loads more sense," he laughs humourlessly, and none of them smile. He gives another sniffle, eyes glazing over again and his voice cracks, "He's getting _worse_. She told me everything, from start to finish, said that - that his mental state is _deteriorating_. He can't - he used to be able to differentiate, between this life and the other, but now -"

Gwen takes his left hand into hers as he scrubs at his eyes with the other, forcing himself to breathe evenly.

"He can't remember _either_ anymore. It's like, like the lines between them were all blurred together until neither of them makes sense and he can't make left or right of anything. She showed me his records, which - she could go to prison for, you know. D'you ever realise how much shite we go through for this clotpole? Every single time." 

His sniff this time is likely _meant_ to be indignant, but there's so much fondness and genuine concern that it only comes off as endearing. Gwen's knowing smile earns her a half-hearted glare that's lost after a second with a swallow, and he lowers his eyes again.

"I read through it all, and. And I figured it out." His lips quiver, and a few tears slip free when he looks between both of them. "Arthur didn't remember the way we did. He didn't remember at all; Uther _forced_ the memories out, but twisted them and tore them to fit his views. I don't - I think, maybe, that Uther remembered himself when Ygraine died, and - I don't know, maybe in his own deluded way, he thought he was protecting him but. They're all _wrong_ , and Arthur doesn't," he chokes and pulls his hand free from Gwen to bore his palms into his eyes, "He doesn't _remember_ me. More things have come to him over time, but he can't - he doesn't remember my face. Mithian said he's _looking_ for me, like I'm the missing puzzle piece and he's waiting for me to fall in place, even though I'm right in front of him. I'm always right in front of him."

Openly sobbing now, Merlin keeps wiping away at his eyes while Lancelot rubs circles on his back. The room feels too full for just the three of them crowded together on the couch, like the throne room filled with bodies to the walls or a battlefield of thousands all lined up to die. There's the suffocating feeling of importance, like the moment is balancing at the tip of a blade, and Merlin's always been shit at wielding them.

"I made him worse, and I don't know how to save him."

Gwen surges forward to wrap her arms around him and pull him against her, "Oh, Merlin." He buries his face against her neck, clinging to the back of her shirt as she holds him firmly. She only allows him a few seconds of weeping before breaking through his cries with a firm "You're an absolute _idiot_."

Merlin pulls away, the confused frown an almost comedic contrast to the weary sadness of his eyes. "I - what?"

She pats his knee and squeezes it with a smile, "I'm sorry, love - but you're an idiot." Merlin looks to Lancelot for help, but he only gives a useful shrug, and Gwen shakes her head. "Look at me, Merlin," she places a hand on his cheek and locks their eyes to speak clearly, "Arthur _loves_ you. He always has, more than any of us, more than even me." He opens his mouth to protest and she pulls back to sit straight and slip her hand into Lancelot's. "I'm not finished yet, young man. You held Arthur together throughout everything back then. I may have sat beside him on the throne, but you were his right hand. You were the heart of Camelot, _Arthur_ 's heart, and _you_ are what made him strong.

"You didn't make him worse. You made him realise he was wrong, the way you always have. The only thing he needs from you is _you_. You _are_ the missing puzzle piece."

"If you say I complete him, Gwen -"

"Listen to your mother, Merlin," Lancelot tuts, and they all laugh until he grips Merlin's shoulder. "She's right, you know. You brought us all together, then and now. Arthur was our pillar, but you were the one that kept him standing."

"Two sides of the same coin," Merlin whispers, a faint wistful smile in words long buried in the past, present and future. He shakes his head and groans, covering his face with his hands. "He makes me _mad_."

"Yes, well," Gwen says smartly, patting him in the head, "That's what makes you perfect for each other. Now - drinks!"

"What? No, Gwen -"

"I think yes. After all, you've a Sun to reignite. Liquid courage for my infuriating son as he rescues my ex-husband, may you live happily ever after running from the law."

"Oh my god, I hate you both," he whines as Lancelot laughs, but as they toast with ' _Long live the King_ ,' he thinks that maybe, just maybe, his stupid friends might be right.

* * *

"Arthur?"

He stares blankly at the closed window, and says nothing.

* * *

A week later, after two visits without seeing Arthur at all, Merlin runs into Morgana on her way out and his way in. His heart slams into his ribs painfully, always the first reaction to seeing her no matter when or how it happens, but this time is worse than the others. She's still as beautiful as always, long dark hair perfectly curled around her shoulders and dressed to the nines, even coming from a mental institute - but the immaculate make up framing her emerald green eyes isn't enough to cover the devastation there, the tired lines and red signs of restrained tears.

" _Merlin_ ," she gasps, backing away defensively. He's had lifetimes to resolve the conflicts between them, but the first time they meet always hits her a foul blow, and he's never certain which reaction to expect. Sometimes there's lingering anger; sometimes there's a thick wall of remorse.

Now, it seems like there's confusion, but more than that, there's fear. That one's new.

"Morgana? What's wrong?"

"I," she starts, but shakes her head and wraps perfectly manicured fingers around his wrist. "We'll speak, another time, but first -" Her eyes flicker back to the doors, wide with anxiety; it reminds him of the state she was once in following her visions, and a pang of fright shoots through him. Her grip tightens, "You have to help him. I never - this is the first time I've visited, and he," she swallows, and lowers her voice, "He asked me if I've come to return him to Avalon." Merlin inhales sharply, a desperate gasp for air where it seems the world has none left t offer. They know the significance; it's the one place they find each other in redemption and despair. 

"I don't know what Uther did to him but _please_ , Merlin. You have to help him."

"I will, Morgana," he says firmly, sliding his wrist free to take her hand in his instead, "I always will. You know that."

She swallows once more, nods her head, and then recomposes herself to the pristine Lady she's always been. She slips a business card with her phone number into his hand and walks brusquely away, keeping her head down as the click of her heels fades into the distance. Merlin watches her go, a fist wrapped tightly around his heart, then tucks the card away safely to hurry inside.

He doesn't bother with checking in; with any luck, this will be his last day. He rushes to the rec room instead, where Arthur's group should be this time of day, but he doesn't see the blonde anywhere. His heart refuses break the tight grip around it, content to crawl up his throat and try to suffocate him. He closes his eyes and focuses, lets his magic spread through the building in search of his King until _yes_ , there, there's the light of the Sun spilling from Arthur's private quarters.

Merlin veils himself past the guards and knocks on the door, "Arthur?" There's no response, but he knows he's here. The golden light of his magic is still seeping out from underneath the door, despite the pale white light of the fluorescent bulb in the room. Merlin slips inside, and his magic lingers just long enough to make Arthur glow where he sits on his bed, staring out the thick window, until it fades away and he speaks quietly.

"I died." His voice is so small, so frail, and he turns to Merlin with wide eyes that don't quite see him and a miserable frown on his lips. "I died, at Camlann. Mordred betrayed me. How could that happen?"

"Arthur," Merlin whispers, approaching him carefully, but Arthur doesn't seem to mind. He just keeps his sorrowful eyes on Merlin's face, watching him come closer in despair.

"How could I die? How could I leave Camelot behind, how could leave you all behind - ?"

"No," Merlin says quickly, rushing to kneel before him as he has all his life, in all his lives. Submitting before his one and only leader, his guiding star. The lost Sun, still burning bright above him. "No, Arthur, you saved us. You built Albion for all, you gave us home."

Arthur frowns down at him, searching for something in his eyes. "You tried to save me."

"I tried everything. I'm so sorry, Arthur, I tried _everything_ -"

He cuts Merlin off with a touch to his cheek, "You kept trying, and I - I told you not to. I told you to let me go, that you'd done all you could." He brushes a thumb across Merlin's cheekbone and smiles softly, "You stayed with me."

Merlin swallows his heart back into his chest, and returns a weak smile. "To the very last."

"You promised to wait for me. That one day, I'd return and we'd be together again. But I couldn't," he frowns again, shakes his head, "I couldn't -"

Merlin covers Arthur's hand with his own before he can withdraw it and presses a kiss to his palm, "I'm here now. You couldn't find me, so I found you instead. Like always, you prat."

Arthur's smile is so bright, so sincere for the first time that Merlin is nearly blinded by it. " _Merlin_."

He leans forward and Merlin meets him in a kiss; a chaste, firm press of their lips together, and a dam breaks within him, his magic rushing forth to dance between their lips and across Arthur's skin. Merlin can feel it sinking into him, pressing into all the broken places he was missing and filling them in, burying itself deep into Arthur's core where it belongs. Merlin pulls away with a gasp, their foreheads pressed together.

"It's time to come home, Sire."

* * *

Merlin hears the door to the kitchen swing open and does his best not to smile when he feels Arthur's arms wrap around his waist from behind, but loses it when the blonde hooks his forehead over his shoulder and kisses the underside of his jaw.

"I hate these things."

"Oi, don't be a brat, now. Morgana went through a lot of trouble setting this up." Merlin slaps Arthur's hand away when he reaches toward the platter of food he's arranging.

"But I _hate_ these things. I've _always_ hated these things."

His voice is just petulant enough to earn a laugh, and Merlin turns in his arms to wrap his own around his neck. Arthur grips his hips lightly and brushes their noses together; Merlin smiles. "Arthur. Dearest. My love, my life, my lord, my liege -"

"All right, all right, that's enough out of you -"

"My lovely little lima bean," Merlin finishes, and Arthur laughs quietly. He kisses him lightly and smiles against his lips. "It's been nine months. I know you hate celebrating your birthday, but. Let us celebrate having _you_. We're finally all together again, and where would we be without our King?" Arthur hums noncommittally, so Merlin kisses him again. "At least there are no jugglers?"

Arthur laughs again and pulls away, "No, but there are still clowns. We should go out there before Gwaine and Morgana murder each other."

"They're courting, it's _cute_."

"There is nothing _cute_ about her hurling our china at his head."

"Okay, maybe not that, but you know they'll be going home together at the end of the night. Gwen'll make sure of it."

Arthur groans and rolls his eyes, mumbling something about nightmares and vomiting, and when he turns to leave, Merlin catches his hand.

"Hey," he tugs him back for another kiss, intending for it to be quick but it deepens until Arthur has him backed up against the counter, Merlin's fingers tangled in his hair and their lips swollen. He presses their foreheads together, breathing heavily with a grin. "I love you."

Arthur smiles, eyes closed and fingers curled around Merlin's wiry hips. There's still a lot to fix between them, a long way to go before he's whole again, but this - just, his house filled with his loved ones breaking his things and Merlin in his hands - it's enough. It's home. It's _his_.

"I love you too, you idiot."


End file.
